Page 164 of Hawthorne

"You’re not a suitor," I grit out.

“Oh, uh-uh,” he tuts with his mocking tone. “The magazines very much disagree with you. I’m no longer the underdog or the forgotten Hawthorne rebel brother. I am the possible future king.”

“Shut up,” I hiss, trying to keep my composure as a gentleman from across the room bows to me with a slick smile.

I can’t possibly fathom who the hell he is. And I am sure I was shown pictures and portraits of everyone invited. I hate Joshua for this. He knows I won’t choose anyone from here.

“Is there a line we need to wait in to be introduced like they used to in the Middle Ages? Where should I stand?” he asks as that same gentleman strides towards us.

I chuckle. “You know that in the Middle Ages, they weren’t introduced to each other until after they got married, right?”

“What?” he gasps, horrified. “What if they got a minger?”

A resigned sigh escapes my lips. “Too bad for them.”

“Thank goodness I was born in the right era,” he sighs before doing the phew sound and movement.

Oh, yes. I imagine Edgar being slapped by women and hunted down by many men if he were to exist at least one hundred and fifty years ago.

“I’d pay to see that.” I smirk.

Looking in the direction of the gentleman, who is already close to us, his expression changes, and he whispers to me as I sip my champagne, “I’m going to get some more drinks. Lord Farquaad is coming.”

I choke and spit champagne onto the floor. Classy.

“Oh, my goodness,” I babble. “I am so sorry!”

Luckily enough he was still far away enough that I didn’t splatter it all over his expensive suit.

“Your Majesty.” He bows again. “May I have a dance?”

“Oh, uh...I—” I stutter. “Yes.”

The song is already playing, with other guests dancing graciously through the hall. His arms rise in position, waiting for me to take his lead. And I do. He’s about my height, making it highly uncomfortable since he seems to be looking at me without blinking.

He leads me across the hall in a refined grace, even if my body is stiff and my eyes look everywhere but him. There aren’t any mistakes. No stepping on feet; no moves outside the rhythm.Nothing.

Yet it feels like nothing.I feel dead inside. It doesn’t even catch up to the way I felt while dancing in his arms all those months ago.

It goes on until someone steps in to ask for a dance with me. And a third man. Then, a fourth. By the time I am finally given a break—by the sixth dance—I feel dizzy and hungry.

“I need to be excused,” I tell the last man I am dancing with, not giving him or anyone else a chance to approach me.

Through one of the doors, I head to my office, where some food awaits me.

“Finally,” I groan, popping half a biscuit inside my mouth.

“That’s not very ladylike.” A low baritone voice tsks, and I gasp, startled, letting the other half fall to the ground. Primrose jumps from the person’s lap, eating it right away.

“Fucking hell, Edgar,” I bristle. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“Waiting for Miss Monera to get tired of all those candidates.”

“Happy now?” I groan, stretching my legs.

They’re starting to hurt. At this point, everything hurts—even my soul.

“I want to go to bed.”

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